Classic Poem

Oh Mylitta! hear my prayer!
Send me lovers rich and fair,
For I languish in desertion and my bosom pants for pleasure;
And to thank thee with all zeal,
In the temple I will kneel,
And will bring thee spice and ointments, and a portion of my treasure.

Thou, who gazest from the stars,
Thou, whose glory nothing mars,
Take sweet pity on thy servant, who in wanton pride obeys thee.
To do honor to thy feast
I have given my flesh to priests,
To the priests my lips deserted, but in sacrifice to praise thee.

By thy beauty I am graced,
Yet the city's ways I traced
Many times since fall of sunlight, and I find no compensation.
All the warriors have smiled,
By my loveliness beguiled,
But the king has held their payment, and their looks are hesitation.

Oh Mylitta! for thy sake,
When to dawn mine eyes did wake,
I made purchase of sweet unguents and red roses for my tresses.
In mine eyes there lurks the fire
Of unquenchable desire,
Yet the striplings of the city spurn my beauty and caresses.

Oh Mylitta! goddess sweet,
I have lingered at thy feet,
In the temple's shrine mysterious with thy priestesses ecstatic;
I have given to them my breast,
When by hunger sore oppressed,
To appease thy righteous rancor in thy garments emblematic.

I have roses in my hair,
My white breast is oiled and bare,
I have kisses warm and cunning to excite a youth to sue me.
Oh Mylitta! hear my prayer,
And send lovers rich and fair,
With silk robes, or gold, or spices, ere the morn awakens to me!

And for thee in swift return,
For a day I will sojourn
In the temple as the plaything of the bearded priests audacious,
And when sighing in their arms,
I will praise thy wondrous charms,
And will sing thee songs of rapture, oh Mylitta! white and gracious!
Then from the swaying crowd an aged man,
A Ninevite, so reckoned by his curls,
Broke loose and stopped the harlot with his hand,
Placing a bit of silver in her breast,
And to her tent she guided him, while all
Watched them with envy glaring in their eyes.
Deep in the labyrinth of Bit-Saggath,
In dismal vaults illumed by flickering lamps,
The skilled Embalmers of far Egypt work,
And, toiling, sing loud praises of themselves.